Her forehead wrinkled. “I want you to show the PGA who you are in the McGladrey. So, yes, I can be crazy passionate for nine more days. It’s all coming together. You’re playing great. Please don’t let anyone talk you out of showing what you can do.”
Shoo took his hand off the handle and faced her. “You really have the wrong impression of my dad. Like your father, he’s a good guy. Yes, sometimes I wish he’d get on board with a PGA career for me, but he’s concerned the tour will ruin my relationships. And he’d like me settled in a good job near home so he can enjoy his grandkids. I respect that he’s been around twenty-six years longer than I have, and he’s had twice the experiences.”
Allie didn’t look convinced.
He touched her arm. “I want to honor my dad, Allie. Although it may not look like it sometimes, I’m a man now. So, it’s not wrong for me to listen to his advice and then make my own decisions, through consulting my Father in heaven.”
~*~
Allie settled on the bench behind Shoo’s spot on the nearly empty driving range. Hallelujah. Shoo was over Christine. Now, if only Steve Leonard would stop doing hare-brained things like setting up cushy jobs with high-paying salaries for Shoo.
Truth be told, though, she liked Shoo wanting to honor his father. It was the Eric Liddell thing to do. Actually, she’d be disappointed if he didn’t. He was supposed to be a stand-up guy for youth.
Pong! Shoo’s drive hit the 250-yard marker.
“Hit it again!”
Shoo turned and grinned. “You don’t think I can?”
“Show me.” A smile tugged at her lips. How good to be back in buddy-mode, especially now that Christine was no longer in the picture.
Shoo’s next drive bounced near the 250-yard marker and rolled.
“I didn’t hear it,” she said in a singsong voice.
“You will.” He teed up another ball.
His next few drives landed consistently close to the marker.
Shoo was ready. He’d do great in the McGladrey, if Steve would buckle himself into a straitjacket.
Pong!
Shoo spun around. “Ha! I did it.”
Allie stood and clapped. “Do it again.”
He teed up the last ball from the range basket. “You are one high-maintenance gal.”
As soon as the ball landed a few feet beyond the marker, Allie stood, whisked away the empty basket, and knocked the last basket over so the balls rolled toward Shoo’s tee area.
He proffered his driver. “You want to hit a few?”
“Yeah, right. For someone my size, hitting a ball with your driver would be like wielding a flagstick.”
He chuckled. “Then see how far you can throw them. I’ll get us sodas from the machine and give my Dad a quick call.”
As he walked away, her heart ponged like Shoo’s ball against the marker. What would he choose to do?
She sat on the bench and waited. Along with the cool night-air scents, home images rose. Cooler autumn temperatures like these were the norm in North Carolina. Only nine more days and she’d be home, away from her angst.
Shoo returned carrying two cans. His face offered no clues as to how the call went.
He handed her a soda and let out a breath. “The salary offer and benefits are outstanding.”
“Just tell me if you took it.”
“A little compassion would be nice.”
Because he’d disappointed Steve, or because he’d sacrificed his own dream? Either one would be hard on Shoo. “My impatience was uncalled for. You’ve had a tough decision to make.”
He nodded and sat on the bench. “I told you I’m pigheaded, especially when I think I’m following God’s will.”
So, he’d turned down Steve. Allie checked her desire to leap into the air, and simply returned his nod.
He poked her arm and fixed his gaze on hers. “Or maybe, I couldn’t bear to let you down.”
Goosebumps raised on her arms. Shoo took her seriously. She sipped her cola, recovering her composure.
Shoo regarded her. Would he say something else profound?
She licked the sweetness from her lips. “What?”
“You look good with a little color on your nose and chin. It complements your remarkable blue eyes.”
So, the tender moment had passed. Now came the jokes.
He drew on his root beer. “From what I’ve noticed, women normally redden their cheeks. It’s a horizontal versus a vertical thing.” He touched one fingertip to her nose and another to her chin. Then he rotated his fingers until they touched her cheeks.
She batted his hand away. “Now that you mention horizontal versus vertical, I notice your derrière spreading horizontally, so I suggest you get vertical and hit that last bucket of balls.”
He laughed. “I suppose you want me to whack the 250-yard marker again too.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
He yanked her ponytail. “Dad is eager to meet you. I told him I’d bring you to dinner one night next week.”
Pong, pong. Pong, pong. Why couldn’t he give her overworked heart a break? “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“You know how I’ve ragged on your dad. I’m afraid I’d say the wrong thing.”
He cuffed her shoulder. “Look. You’ll not say anything wrong. I’ll stay by your side and pinch you whenever your conversation heads in the wrong direction.”
21
Shoo zipped on Chris’s putter cover and sank the club into his bag. The last five holes had killed Chris’s final score for the day, and his swing was really off. Now Chris wanted to practice. The overtime on the driving range would cut into the chipping practice Allie had planned for this evening.
Chris returned from his TV interview. “I’m going inside to sign my scorecard. Go on over to the driving range and get me set up with two buckets of balls.” He handed Shoo his glove and hiked toward the clubhouse.
Shoo stored Chris’s glove and called Allie’s cell as he drove the cart to the range. “Hi. I saw your Dad’s three under for the tournament.”
“Yes. He had a great day.”
“That puts him in the running. Chris is even.”
“I saw the leader board.”
“Yep. So, unfortunately, Chris wants to practice.”
“You’re kidding. He knows you train in the evenings.”
“He’s the boss. It probably won’t be that long. I think he just wants to work out his frustration.”
“Call me when you’re free. I’ll go out for a quick bite with Dad. I feel bad I’ve been hogging the car, but he always says catching a ride with other players is no problem since they eat together, anyway. Actually, it’ll be good to have a meal with him tonight.”
“Yeah. Real food. OK. Later.”
At the driving range, Shoo set up Chris’s practice, then dug out a bag of chips, a candy bar, and a root beer from his plastic cooler. Then he sat in the cart.
He stuffed chips into his mouth. Yuck. Too salty. He scrunched his lips and nose, swallowed, and chugged his soda. Served him right for buying off-brand chips to save money.
It’d be nice to eat a real meal for a change. Only a few more days and he’d enjoy Mom’s home cooking.
He downed the candy bar and wadded the wrapper and the half-full potato chip bag together. He turned to toss the makeshift ball, but the trash can on the post was too far for a three-point shot. Bummer.
As he ambled toward the can, a service cart mounded with bulging plastic garbage bags came from the clubhouse’s direction. Chris walked toward Shoo on his way to the range, and the cart barely skirted him before continuing towards him. Shoo chucked his trash into the receptacle and headed back to the cart. Hopefully, Chris’s practice would be—
Carang!
Something struck Shoo’s back and propelled him off his feet. Thud. Air whooshed from his chest. Pain shot up his arm.
Man, the pain! In his right hand. He rolled over onto his back, clu
tching his hand to his chest. What had happened?
As he struggled to take in air, Chris grabbed his shoulder. “You OK?”
Shoo blinked. Then nodded.
Chris studied his face for a moment and then moved away.
Shoo sat up, sucking for air. Each shallow breath took in the odor of the garbage strewn around him. He released his throbbing hand long enough to brush a hotdog bun smeared with mustard and onions from his shorts. He searched for Chris.
Chris hunkered down beside a large man lying on the grass. The guy driving the service cart. Not good.
The cart was a few yards beyond the driver, its bumper wrapped around the trash receptacle pole. Shoo faced forward again. The garbage can lay several yards beyond him. So that’s what had hit him? He shook his head, rotated on his butt, and faced Chris.
“Is he breathing?” Shoo panted his question. If only he could take in a solid breath.
“No, and no pulse.” Chris pumped his crossed hands on the man’s chest.
Shoo worked his way to a standing position, pushing off the ground with his good hand, and lumbered toward Chris. He reached across his body and fumbled his cell from his right pocket. The downed volunteer’s walkie-talkie lay on the grass close to the service cart. Maybe tournament medical personnel were still on the course. He detoured to the walkie-talkie, grasped it with his good hand, and pressed the talk button. “We have a medical emergency. Anyone there?”
“Yes. What’s the problem? Over.”
“Call for an ambulance. A service volunteer may have had a heart attack or a stroke. At the driving range. We’re applying CPR now. Over.”
“I’m on it. Over.”
Shoo joined Chris, and checked the volunteer’s neck pulse for a beat. “Getting a weak pulse.”
The man’s head lolled from side to side, and he moaned.
Shoo dropped to a sitting position and looked at his aching hand. Had he broken bones?
~*~
Allie closed in on the car crawling below the speed limit, whatever that was, and passed as soon as a spot opened in traffic.
Dad gripped the dash.
Yes. She was driving like a maniac. And why wouldn’t she, when Chris’s text left out what she needed to know. Taking Shoo to Methodist Stone Oak Hosp. Meet us at ER.
“What could possibly be wrong with Shoo?” Allie checked the GPS.
“I don’t know, honey.” His body stiffened. “Light’s turning red ahead.”
She let up on the gas and applied the brakes. “He and Chris were practicing on the driving range. What in the world could have happened there? I guess somebody could’ve shanked a ball that hit Shoo.” She stared at the red light and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Will you try calling Chris again?”
“Still going to voicemail. Maybe Chris left his cell in his car.” Dad pointed toward the windshield. “The hospital is up ahead.”
“Thank heaven you’re with me, Dad. If he’s dying…” Her voice cracked as she shook her head against the image of a pallid Shoo lying dead on a gurney. She couldn’t lose him. She just couldn’t.
“Honey, don’t. This isn’t the time to let your imagination run wild. It doesn’t change anything, or help.”
She cast him a glance. His gaze was directed at the ceiling, his lips moving. He was praying. Her heart beat faster.
She parked and exited the car running. At the emergency center entrance, the doors whooshed open. After a quick stop for directions at the desk, she rushed to the ER waiting area.
Chris tossed his magazine on the seat next to him and stood. Would Chris do something as mundane as read a magazine if Shoo was dying?
Dad caught up to her as she approached Chris.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Guy had a heart attack, and—”
“Shoo had a heart attack? He’s too young…”
Dad cupped her shoulder and drew her away from encroaching on Chris’s personal space. “Calm down, Allie, and let Chris tell us.”
She gulped hard and stared at Chris. Pain in her arches forced her to uncurl her toes from gripping her insoles.
“A volunteer driving a service cart slumped over the steering wheel from a heart attack.”
Allie sucked in a breath. “Did they get him here in time?” She studied Chris’s face. Hopefully, he’d have good news about the volunteer. And get on to Shoo. Wouldn’t Chris have mentioned Shoo first if something horrible had happened?
“The last I heard they were running tests.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“Sounds like you got him medical attention quickly,” Dad said.
“I had to give him CPR. But by the time the ambulance arrived, his pulse went from nothing to fairly strong beats.”
Allie couldn’t wait a second longer. “Why is Shoo here?” How had she inched into Chris’s personal space again? She backed away.
“The volunteer’s foot must have remained heavy on the pedal, because the cart kept going and ran into a pole holding a garbage can. The impact jolted the guy from the cart and sent the can flying into Shoo’s back. Shoo took a nasty fall and injured his hand.”
“Oh, no. Which hand?”
Chris thought a moment. “His right. The one he injured before.”
“No!” Allie spun around and collapsed into a chair. “That’s so unfair!”
Chris returned to his seat.
Dad took the chair next to her and put his arm around her shoulder. “We don’t know anything for sure, honey.”
She couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. “He’s worked so hard, Dad. His dream is over. He’ll be lucky to teach golf.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.” He spoke gently. “If I remember correctly that was your dream.”
“You don’t understand. He wants something really noble. He wants to play golf on the PGA so that youth all over the world will have a strong role model. Why would God let this happen?”
“I don’t know, honey, but I know He can work whatever the diagnosis is for good.”
“Good for whom?”
Shoo appeared in the doorway. He supported his injured hand, holding an ice pack to it with his other.
Allie rose, and biting her lip, walked toward him like a death-row inmate walked the green mile.
Shoo offered a weak smile.
She knew it! The dream was over.
“Hey.”
She searched his eyes for the truth.
“I guess Chris contacted you.”
“Yeah.” She diverted her gaze to his bad hand resting against his chest. Before she could check for swelling and redness, he covered it again with the ice pack. “So?”
Dad and Chris joined them.
“They took X-rays and sent me out here to wait for results. At least my hand’s not throbbing as much as it was.”
“Can you bend your wrist?” Chris nodded toward Shoo’s arm.
Shoo flexed his fingers upward. “It’s tender, all right, but I don’t think the problem is my wrist. I’m afraid I may have fractured a bone in my hand.”
Dad studied the injured area. “The swelling could be a lot worse.”
Hope lifted the thousand-pound weight on Allie’s chest a fraction of an inch.
Shoo raised his head. “I appreciate you coming, but you don’t need to stay. The diagnosis will be the same whether you’re here or not.” He nodded toward Dad and Chris. “Chris mentioned you guys have a bridge game tonight. I’ll call you as soon as I get the X-ray results.”
Allie took a step closer to Shoo. “I’m staying.”
Chris patted his pocket. “I must have left my phone in my car. What do you think, Mill? Shall we leave your car with them and try to make it to the game?”
“Go, Dad. I want to be here for Shoo.”
Dad raised one eyebrow and cocked his head toward Allie. “I’m praying for Shoo, but I’m more worried about you.”
“Me? Why?”
Dad patted her shoulder. “Let’s jus
t say, your empathy gets a little intense.” He turned to Chris. “Let’s go play some bridge.”
Dad tapped her nose, gave her that lopsided grin she loved, and walked from the waiting room with Chris.
More tears threatened. Dad hadn’t tapped her nose since before Mom died.
Shoo moved to the chairs. “Shall we sit?”
While they waited, Allie glanced at Shoo’s hand for the umpteenth time, gauging whether the swelling had worsened. She should stop. Her constant checking might drive Shoo to worry.
Shoo picked up the magazine Chris had left on his chair. How could he be so calm?
Maybe she should read a magazine. Anything to distract her from keeping vigil on Shoo’s hand, and the waiting room odor…a floor wax and antiseptic blend.
A teenage boy followed his mother to the chairs next to Shoo. The boy sat and rested a swollen arm on his thigh.
“You look a lot worse off than me,” Shoo said.
“Backyard football. The way it hurts, I think it’s broken. What happened to you?”
“A flying garbage can. I fell on my hand wrong.”
“A flying garbage can?”
“Out at the golf tournament, a service cart ran into a garbage can and sent it soaring. It hit me in the back. The driver had a heart attack, but the nurse told me he’s doing well. Considering.”
“Wow. Freak accident.”
“Yeah. Or maybe the Lord is trying to tell me something. This is the second hand injury I’ve had this year.”
What did Shoo mean? Was he starting to think God was directing him away from a golf career?
“That's tough. I sure wouldn’t want to hurt my arm like this twice.” The teen grimaced. “The pain’s bad. I hope they can take me in soon.” His mother rubbed his back.
“What’s your name?” Shoo said.
“Rob.”
“Rob, I’m Shoo. I’d shake your hand, but…well…” He nodded toward his arm and then Rob’s. “Would you allow me to pray for you?”
Rob turned to his mother. She shrugged. He regarded Shoo for a moment and then nodded.
Shoo angled his head toward Rob and closed his eyes. “Father, You are a compassionate God and want the best for Rob. Please, ease Rob’s pain and give the doctors wisdom for his healing. Please work good from his situation. I ask these things in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
The Putting Green Whisperer Page 19
